


Iugula!

by Kaorusan241



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period Piece, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:25:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8646043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaorusan241/pseuds/Kaorusan241
Summary: "Jeez Keith, I get enough of you at mealtimes, now we have to bathe together too?"At last Keith turned, giving him an even stare."It's not as if I'm thrilled to see you either, Lance."In which Lance and Keith are Gladiators, Roman baths leave very little to the imagination, and falling in love with the guy you're supposed to kill wasn't part of the plan.





	1. Chapter 1

> **Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.**
> 
> _The stars incline us, they do not bind us._

 

* * *

 

Lance's palm was sweaty around the hilt of his sword. He flexed his fingers, adjusting his grip, shaking out his arm to ease some of the tension building there.

Determination rather than natural born talent were what had gotten him this far. Repeated victories and celebrations had made Lance complacent, but in the arena mere seconds meant everything. If he was going to survive then he'd have to work harder on building back muscle.

Deep breaths, Lance.

The exercise yard of the _Ludus Magnus_ had a medley of training supplies available for gladiators to use, and it was one such model that Lance stood before now. The wooden frame was tilted slightly on its post, grooves etched into the sides from hours of misuse.

He visualized his opponent, usually broad shouldered and arrogant, carrying a trident intended to gouge at his eyes and limbs. Netting would be wrapped taught around one wrist, ready to drag his feet down to the ground should he drop his guard.

Ancient Rome was a nation valuing pleasure and excess, the arts and literature. Lance sometimes found it difficult to believe the thirsty shouts for blood that would accompany tittering young women and their husbands, these same men who debated the ethics of war.

How could a society seemingly so civilized take such delight in the loss of human life?

He swung his blunt training sword again lowly, circling the wooden prop and making a few half-hearted strikes. Stocks and whipping posts were settled to his right, blood caked into the cracked stonework underneath.

Most gladiators were criminals or slaves, prisoners of war that were plucked out and trained to bring in the maximum profit. Their oath: _“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword"._ It’s not a job advert that Lance would have followed up if he’d been given the choice, that’s for sure.

Desperation had driven him here when he was 16, but it wasn’t all bad. Lance had never been scrawny, not exactly the pick of the crop but he’d held his own in a few fair fights back home. The gladiator school promised three square meals and monetary rewards, so it beat starving out on the streets of Rome at least.

There were surely others in a similar position, poverty was still a very real risk even to free citizens. He doubted he was the only one with a family to support.

Not that he’d ever ask.

Lance had decided long ago to keep things strictly civil with the other gladiators. Aside from small talk at the customary feast preceding a match, it was better not to become too friendly. You never knew who might be chosen as your next opponent, after all.

It was for this reason that Lance had chosen to work at an amphitheatre far from his training school, in the hopes that he might never meet his tentative young friends in combat.

Lance’s thoughts turned to the fiercest opponent he'd faced among his fellow _novicius_ , Keith, and his movements became more aggressive.

That jerk.

Keith must have had the same idea, because now they found themselves practicing in the same arena, connected to the Flavian Amphitheatre via a series of damp underground tunnels. I mean seriously, would he have to die to escape the guy and his nasty mullet? Lance was pretty sure that Jupiter himself would understand if he chopped off the thing in Keith’s sleep.

Regardless, Lance did his best to ignore him. He had plenty of other friends passing daily through the gates who weren't gladiators; among them trainers, attendants, officials and slaves. Lance may be reserved around potential opponents, but he was still a friendly guy.

By now his sword had become light, gliding easily through the air as his muscles lost their initial burning ache. The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, signaling the approach of dusk and the gladiators' traditional "last meal".

Deciding that was enough training for today, Lance wiped his brow with one hand and made for the communal baths. Stripping off and dumping his belongings in the entrance chamber, he reached for the oil and began slathering it over his body.

It made his olive skin glisten, and it felt grimly satisfying to scrape the day's sweat and grime off with a strigil before moving to the hot plunge pool.

Predictably, Keith was already there when Lance arrived. His theatrical groan went seemingly unnoticed, so Lance decided to rock the boat a little further.

"Jeez Keith, I get enough of you at mealtimes, now we have to bathe together too?"

At last Keith turned, giving him an even stare.

"It's not as if I'm thrilled to see you either, Lance."

Lance plopped down into the water beside him, leaning back and sighing loudly as the steam worked to relieve his tired joints.

There was a blissful pause, the heat rendering Lance mute for a while as he let himself relax. Just as he opened his mouth to break it, he was cut off by Keith clearing his throat.

"The games are tomorrow. You catch a look at the program?"

"Yeah, apparently the audience are getting water sprinklers this time around.” Lance smirked at the thought. “It gets so hot out there, what I wouldn't give to be under that glamorous awning with the emperor's daughter instead -"

"- assuming Allura would be interested -"

"- Whatever, I see the way she looks at me when I'm out in the arena, you're just jealous."

Ignoring Lance's pout, Keith continued, his voice quieting slightly.

"With all your interest in the music and luxuries given to spectators, did you actually bother to look at the gladiator pairs or timings?"

Lance could imagine Keith striding across the street at the crack of dawn for a look at the _Gladiatores_ posters, and rolled his eyes.

"As if I'd need to do that. It doesn't matter who I'm up against, I'll win the match either way."

_It doesn’t matter who I’m up against, I’ll have to kill them either way._

"Fighting talk from the guy I left half dead back in training school."

"So I had a cold? Big deal.”

Lance glanced over, and something weary in Keith's expression caused him to pause.

"…You've been listed twice, haven't you?"

"…Yeah."

Lance turned back to the brick wall opposite them, adjusting his position on the bench and debating what to say.

Usually he paid no attention to Keith's feelings, him being Lance’s arch-rival for gladiator fame and all, but he was well aware of the survival rate for those having to perform twice in one set of games.

He didn't like the guy, but he didn't exactly wish him dead either.

"That sucks."

Nailed it, Lance.

"That's not even the best part." Keith chuckled wryly. "The beast fight is first, guess who I'm up against afterwards?"

The sound of dripping water and Lance's hands swilling around in the pool felt too loud in the closed space.

He didn't want to know the answer.

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂

 

 

"It's okay, shh, shh, it's okay!"

Lance smiled gently at Hunk's cooing, he looked ridiculous, leant over a tiger and stroking its jaw fondly. Never mind that the great beast was growling lowly, it's eyes fixed on Lance as it strained to break free from it’s muzzle.

He guessed that Hunk's looming figure and firm hands had fostered a sense of trust between the two, he may have had a warm smile but Hunk was his own kind of beast when it came to protecting his friends.

"Hey, Hunk?"

Lance was seated on a crate next to the animal cages, watching absently as throngs of editors, horses and musicians bustled past. The opening procession had already begun, cheers and trumpets audible each time the great gates opened.

The magistrate editor would be up soon, and then Lance and the other gladiators would be paraded like cattle as they awaited their matches.

“Do you reckon the crowd seems less bloodthirsty today?”

Hunk seemed to sense Lance's unease, so he clapped him on the shoulder.

"You've done this so many times before Lance, it'll be fine! Just focus on your training, and be sure to limber up beforehand! I've heard if you don't limber up, your bones are more brittle or something, and they snap more easily. Then there’d be no point in the crowd granting you _missio_ , because you’d already be dead."

"Thanks Hunk, that _really_ makes me feel better."

"Sorry, sorry. You must be pretty excited though, you finally get to fight Keith again!"

Lance considered this. It's true that he'd entertained the thought of _sparring_ with Keith again since graduating training school, but a gladiator match was no laughing matter.

If you lost, the chances of being granted mercy by the crowd were reduced to one in four. Even the most popular gladiators could perish at the hands of a dissatisfied crowd.

If Lance and Keith both wanted to survive, they'd have to put on a show.

"Yeah... I'm glad I'm up against Keith." He smirked at the thought. "Of course I'm going to win, just like in training!"

Hunk chuckled at that, before turning his attention back to the animals. They were growing increasingly distressed, seeming to have some sick sixth sense for what soon awaited them.

"Hunk..”

Lance weighed his words carefully before speaking.

“Why do you work with the animals? Even knowing what will happen to them?"

Hunk stilled in his movements, giving the tiger one last look before turning to Lance with a sigh.

"Obviously I hate what they do to them here. It's cruel to both sides. Even if a beast succeeds against a gladiator, they'll be killed soon afterwards anyway."

Lance thought back to Keith; how he must be feeling listening to the visceral roars of the lions overhead.  The teeth bared at him now could easily rip a person to shreds.

He stifled a shudder.

"I work with them because if I don't, someone crueller will take my place. If I can ease their nerves, even for a short time, then I've granted them something."

"I guess that makes sense."

A loud horn sounded, and Lance stood up, stretching his arms and attempting to calm down.

"Good luck Lance!" Hunk was beaming now, and Lance couldn’t help but return his grin.

"Thanks Hunk, I'll see you later."

Lance still had some time before his fight with Keith, but he wouldn't see Hunk again until the match was over.

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂

 

 

"Iugula! Iugula!"

Keith jumped back, dodging the blow stealthily.

"Kill! Kill!" The crowd's screams were borderline hysterical now, men virtually tumbling out of the stands to get a better look.

It wasn’t customary for a gladiator to be pitched against both men and lions, but it certainly wasn’t unheard of. Lance was sure it was nothing Keith couldn’t handle - he had been the best in their training class after all – but that still didn’t help the knot of unease wedged firmly in his chest.

The sun was scorching hot, causing dust to seep out of the broken earth each time Keith’s sandals skidded over them. It was blinding, and Lance had to hold a hand up over his eyes to get a clear view.

All around people appeared to be doing the same, even the stocky wine vendors had paused in their movements to gaze obtusely at the unfolding battle of wits.

Keith’s cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in sharp pants as he strove to avoid sharp jaws and claws. The men accompanying the beasts lay motionless on the floor now, a well placed slice to the neck from Keith’s sword had offered them a smooth and quick death.

Lance knew Keith’s fighting style well from their days in training. Perhaps too well, if he was being honest with himself.

From what Lance had observed, something was slightly off.

Usually Keith was stoic, unintimidated and decisive in his movements. Today he was skittish, eyes flitting about to the stands when his attention should really have been focused on the animals before him.

There were four lions, which seemed a little excessive in Lance’s mind, but the emperor had a notoriously slim attention span. Keith had taken down two but the others had begun to circle him and showed no signs of fatigue.

Whatever it was that had Keith so distracted led his gaze briefly towards where the remaining gladiators stood waiting, or that’s what Lance had thought at least, it was difficult to tell now that Keith was plunging his weapon into the bushy neck of lion number one.

Lance tore his eyes away from the blood spurting over Keith’s right arm and legs. When he did, their eyes met abruptly, and Lance felt his nerves falter. His mouth opened, maybe to yell a word of encouragement, to do _something_ , but Keith had paused, and that was enough.

A sickening crunch echoed out across the theatre, the lion’s jaws sliding through the flesh of Keith’s ankle like butter as the crowd roared with riotous applause.

The dull ache that Lance had blamed earlier on stress was now a full-blown headache. It didn’t matter how many injuries he saw out in the arena, they caused a wave of nausea to wash over him every single time.

To his credit, Keith’s reflexes following the bite seemed to go into overdrive. Following an unavoidable scream of pain, he whirled around, Lance recognizing the blow he aimed to the lion’s head as a trick learnt in training. The animal’s jaws released with a jolt, it’s teeth now slick with red like some garish child that had been caught eating cherries.

Keith didn’t give his opponent the chance to strike again, using both arms this time to drive the blade of his sword straight into it’s snout. With a shaky sigh of relief, Keith fell to his knees, hands falling to his injured ankle in an attempt to stop the flow of blood.

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂

 

 

It wasn’t amphitheatre policy to patch up injuries before a second fight. Both the crowds and the emperor himself preferred the thrill of watching the extremes a man would go to if he was cornered and desperate.

Standing in the gateway as they waited for it to open, Lance felt his eyes dart for the umpteenth time to the gladiator standing next to him.

“Lance.” Keith’s teeth were gritted. He wasn’t one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but even Lance could tell that his patience was thinning. “What is it?”

Lance didn’t really understand why Keith was so stressed. It wasn’t as if he had the upper hand, even with an injury Keith’s hand-to-hand combat skills slightly surpassed Lance’s - as much as he hated to admit it.

_“If I can ease their nerves, even for a short time, then I've granted them something."_

If he and Keith were fated to die in that ring, if the crowd demanded that he thrust a sword into Keith’s injured torso, then he at least wanted to be on decent terms beforehand.

 “Calm down, Mullet.”

If there was anything Lance was good at, it was mimicking bravado.

“I just wanted to say, that when we get through this, we should spar for real. You know, when you don’t have that gross bite-mark across your ankle.”

Lance didn’t need to look over at Keith to feel his glare, but he ploughed on anyway.

“Neither of us are going to die out there, because we’re rivals. Lance and Keith, the only gladiators worth watching in the ring. How would the ladies cope?”

Keith raised an eyebrow at that, choosing not to comment on Lance’s admission that Keith was also a lady-magnet.

“So stop moping around like your usual self.”

Keith heaved a sigh, and was about to respond to Lance’s pep-talk, probably with an insult, before the familiar creaking of metal gate chains and blaring horns signaled that their match was about to begin.

There was no time to chat, now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to go with a more romantic/easy to remember title than basically the Latin word for “finish him off!”, but hey, if the shoe fits.
> 
> Lance’s inner thought processes may appear a little more solemn than usual, but you have to understand that his upbringing has been very different to the Lance we know and love in VLD. I’m not going to give too much away here, but just know that even in this universe he does still tend to deal with difficult situations and insecurities under a veneer of light-hearted humour and sarcasm - that much hasn’t changed.
> 
> Also, importantly:  
> I’m aware that I’ve had to take a few historical liberties with this. My focus of study is actually Medieval History, although I have taken modules in Ancient History. 
> 
> For a bit of context, I have set this in around the period gladiatorial games peaked (100 BC to 200 AD). Following the revolt of Spartacus and the Third Servile War, gladiators speaking the same language would be separated where possible, and watched closely.
> 
> Having said this, Keith and Lance are trained gladiators, formerly freemen, so the rules are slightly laxer for them than those enforced on POW or slaves.
> 
> Many of this trained class had the potential to become close, and form collegia. In this particular work I will not be placing much emphasis on the canon ethnic backgrounds of Lance or Keith, as that is not the focus of the story I am trying to tell, and there are plenty of great fics already out there exploring those themes.
> 
> Quick definitions:  
> Ludus Magnus: The largest gladiatorial training school in Rome, connected to the Colosseum (Also known as the Flavian Amphitheatre)
> 
> Novicius: Gladiators in training, generally treated pretty badly and subjected to extremely strict discipline


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, here we are! In reterospect, uploading the first chapter of a new fic days before the start of study leave, university exams, and then travelling halfway across the world to Australia for the holidays wasn't my best idea. Now that I've actually had some free time updates should be a lot more regular, so I hope you haven't all lost interest! Thank you for the support! ♡

> **Quod sis, esse velis, nihilque malis;  
>  Summum nec metuas diem, nec optes.**
> 
> _Be content with what you are, and wish not change;_
> 
> _nor dread your last day, nor long for it._

 

* * *

 

“Allura, please! Think this through!”

Allura walked fast, her sandals clacking against the marble floor as Coran chased her down the corridor. The light gauze of her tunic billowed behind her as she adjusted the shawl settled around her shoulders.

“Your father is right. It’s one thing for the wives of aristocrats to fawn over gladiators, but your position as future empress is not secure enough for you to join them.”

At this Allura spun around, one hand on her hip. Her hair was pulled up into a series of plaits, held together in a bun by fabric strips edged in gold. Her peplos was a simple white, tied up with beautiful clasps and belted with a golden rope that complimented the jewels around her neck. The sunlight streaming in through the large arched windows lit up her rich skin, the tips of her silvery hair gently skimming her bare arms like wispy starlight.

“I’m not _fawning_ , and what is so wrong with offering my opinion as we watch? If the games are so unsavory, then why does he throw them?”

Allura couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice, moving her arms to fold gently around her chest. The fond memories she had of her father before she’d known any better weighed heavy in her heart, even now.

“The whole practice is barbaric, watching fraught men fight to near death for the amusement of a higher class. When I’m Empress I will have to organize them myself eventually, if only for a month until I can put an end to the practice completely."

“Please, listen to me, because that is exactly my point.”

Coran sighed, running a hand through his hair. Allura could tell that he hadn’t been sleeping well, with those huge bags marring the skin beneath his eyes. She knew that it had been difficult on him, dealing with the senators and their demands as her father grew frail. In any other situation she might try for compromise, if only to ease the weight of responsibility that rested on him.

“Allura, you know that I hate those games as much as you do, and even your father has become less fond of the practice in his old age, although you may struggle to believe it. We have to be practical. You must know that if those senators got any hint that you were looking to change ancient traditions, they would not hesitate to oust you.”

Coran placed a hand on her shoulder then, his expression softening.

“You’re already being forced into marriage with a man you’ve never met. Do you really want to risk any more conditions being forced on you? I don’t want to give them another excuse to depose you.”

Allura sighed, but stood firm. She couldn’t back down this time, as she had in her personal life. Watching men be butchered for entertainment, often young slaves plucked from a line-up and prepared for slaughter - it wasn’t the type of society she aimed to guide.

“I am fully aware of their conditions, Coran. I’ll bite my tongue during these games, but don’t think that this conversation is over. Things will change.”

At that Coran shot her a weary smile, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of it, Allura. We’ll discuss this again later, until then please think over what I said.”

Allura watched him go for a moment before beckoning to her maids to follow her in the opposite direction, slipping into the tablinum and collapsing onto a nearby chaise longue. She kicked off her sandals as the girls bustled around her, preparing a spread of grapes, bread, cheeses and figs, wine amphora and pewter plates. She thanked them for their work, and they were dismissed. Her closest confidante, Cassia, lingered in the archway before joining them. Allura didn’t meet her eyes, but could feel her concern in waves.

At the age of 22 Allura knew that her options for a romantic match were slim, most men of her age or older having married multiple times already, so it was only a matter of time before her father and his government took matters into their own hands.

It’s not as if she hadn’t considered rejecting the proposal. The senate would come around; marriages for those of her maturity and status were purely political these days. As long as she found a suitable heir - her nephew perhaps - everything would work itself out.

Countless stories from Allura’s maids meant that she was well aware of the dangers – namely that she would be saddled with an abusive man, one who took on concubines and wouldn’t let her leave the house for fear of divorce. Allura had thought it over repeatedly. Possible scenarios plagued her mind before she slept and haunted her during the day as she eyed her father’s favourites, wondering which might share her bed before the end of the month.

Despite everything, she had to admit that it was worth the risk. To be free of her father’s command, able to make connections with her husband’s (presumably extensive) contacts, and to have the support of both him and those who respected him? At first Allura had seen marriage as a trap, and it could be, but if all went well it could also be her golden ticket to a new level of political influence.

Allura rubbed her temples, her nerves were tightly coiled, solid like a drupe pit in her chest. Tomorrow she would meet him, this mystery figure who regrettably held her fate in his hands. Tomorrow she would meet him, and she could only hope that he shared the same values she did.

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂

 

 

The wooden gate creaked loudly as it rose higher, the rumbling sound of chains and cogwheels giving way to screams of delight beyond. An elaborate introduction from the arena announcer was merely a muted background piece as Keith stepped out, raising one armored hand to shield his face from the sudden heat.

Lance made for the centre first, eyes fixed ahead and energy in his strides that Keith could only attempt to mimic with his injury. He winced at the sudden pang in his ankle, the lion’s bite still hurt like a bitch but he’d had worse.

Going out to meet Lance, Keith stood, waiting opposite him for the familiar initial trumpet call. Neither wore their helmets, with Lance’s resting on his hip, a grim smirk on his lips as he adjusted the straps supporting his shield.

He had good posture, Keith could give him that. Back in training school he’d written Lance off as tall and gangly, but Keith could see that he’d really filled out now, defined muscles visible beneath a simple leather baldric and one arm free of heavy plating. With his added height as a bonus Keith was sure he made a formidable opponent to spar. In any other situation, sans his injury, Keith might wonder who would win in an even match.

The most striking thing about Lance wasn’t his stature, but his eyes, which remained trained on Keith as he fixed his elaborate plumed helmet into place. Even when Lance raised his hands to do the same, Keith could still make out one eyebrow cocked in challenge - probably an attempt to lighten the mood.

Finally, the trumpet sounded, and time stood still. The crowd’s jeers softened in the melting heat of Sol’s rays, sweat dripping between the scars decorating Lance’s chest as he heaved in breath after breath.

 _Why is this any different?_ Keith rocked on the balls of his feet, heart hammering against his ribcage in anticipation. His breastplate felt too tight.

_It’s just Lance. You’ve done this before, it’s no different to the training school._

The crowd jostled as instruments sang, Lance offering an experimental jab as they began to dance around each other slowly. Keith kept his movements tentative, testing his limits, the metal of Lance’s armor chinking lightly as he mirrored the action.

A gap opened and Keith took it, slicing into the skin on the lower part of Lance’s stomach. It was a surface wound, too light to do any real damage, and Keith knew it. If he’d wanted to drive it in further he could have, but that didn’t stop the crowd from clapping and heckling regardless.

Their affection was worthless, fickle as the winds that blew the dust around Lance’s sandals as he doubled over slightly. For a terrifying moment Keith wondered whether he’d gone too far, cut too deep, but then Lance was up and swiping his sword again.

Keith jumped back, narrowly avoiding a graze to his bad leg. His fingers twitched, his entire body pumped up on bloodlust and itching to cause more serious damage.

 _So you slip up and kill him? You’ll get over it_. Keith looked up from the bloodstained sand, and his breath caught at the look on Lance’s face. His eyes were earnest, expression open. Keith’s heart dropped to his stomach.

Keith was a lot of things. Hot-headed, impulsive, reluctant to make connections, borderline obsessive in his pursuit of victory and the freedom accompanying it. He’d never had much trouble killing before, the empty feeling and nausea surrounding Keith’s first murder was buried in his memories under the ever-increasing weight of those that followed.

But standing here... Mere feet from the boy that had wormed his way into Keith’s life, all cheesy jokes and lame pickup lines in an attempt to cover up the hollowness that Keith recognized well because it was clear in himself. Keith knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it.

No one had gotten close enough before for Keith to call them a friend, at school or since. If he could even label this that. The odd conversation and a tentative undercurrent of understanding didn’t exactly comprise a deep bond, after all.

Something told him that the feeling was mutual, though, as Lance’s eyes skirted about nervously. Neither of them wanted to make the killing blow, that much was certain.

Keith knew what he had to do. There was no sense in Lance getting hurt when one of them was already injured.

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂

 

 

Lance raised his sword weakly, parrying Keith’s blows in a haze. His mind felt like it was plugged with cotton - any usual clarity had flown out of the window quicker than Mercury as he struggled to dodge the situation.

The rumors had reached him weeks ago, that the Emperor Alfor was becoming weak in his old age, prone to striking out at gladiators in a last-ditch attempt to assert himself over his advisors. The chances of any losers being granted mercy were at an all-time low, the will of the crowd serving more of a death-sentence than a relief as Alfor sought to retain his position.

For both gladiators to come out without life-threatening injuries was virtually unheard of – one of them would have to die today. It had been clear in Hunk’s face, gently sympathetic when Lance gave him the news. Lance didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t consider the possibility.

He couldn’t consider his reasons for living – what had driven him through the lice-infested nights and the cramped cells in those early days of near-slavery. Keith deserved to be here as much as Lance did, had his own motives for carrying on.

 _I could fake an injury?_ Lance blocked again, stabbing at Keith’s leg. _Throw myself onto his shield and mock concussion?_ His feet skidded on the uneven ground, they were close now, maybe an arm’s width.

_Would they take the bait? I could leave, flout their rules, I’d rather-_

Keith grabbed at his arms suddenly, the fierce movement shaking Lance off-balance, cruel heat and dehydration throwing him out of focus as he blocked Lance’s view.

If Lance hadn’t been alarmed before, he was now, because Keith was _trembling_. In all the time that he’d known him, all of the covert glances he’d spared across the training deck, or matches he’d ‘observed’ from the stands, Lance had never known Keith to show fear.

_What are you trying to do?_

Lance opened his mouth to speak, ask what the hell Keith thought he was playing at, when he felt his sword being ripped from his hold. Keith’s hands were sweaty where they rested over Lance’s, dark eyes steely in comparison to his which he was sure had grown wide.

His throat felt dry, he shouldn’t be thinking about how close they were but the silence of the crowd was electrifying, ringing in his ears. He couldn’t look away, free arm hanging limp at his side where Keith’s vice-like grip had loosened.

“Sorry, Lance.” Keith choked the words out, and it was with sickening clarity that Lance realized what had happened.

Keith stumbled back, and Lance felt like he might vomit. He hadn’t been certain but now he was sure that he’d rather have died himself than face this, _Keith_ , the guy he’d previously considered untouchable, reduced to his knees and coughing up streams of blood and spit.

Lance’s breathing was shallow, the crowd had started up again but he could barely hear them, swallowing thickly. Keith hadn’t moved from his position on the floor, shaking violently, hair matted against his neck and cheeks.

Lance was no stranger to death. Some prisoners of war weren’t deemed fit to fight, burnt alive or chopped up for meat before they even reached the arena. So why did the thought scare him so much, now? Was it so wrong that he’d been excited to talk to Keith? To watch him train, bicker with him at mealtimes, a brief escape from the wretched fate they both endured?

“This afternoon’s victor, one of our own!” The Emperor’s voice boomed out across the amphitheatre, tearing Lance’s gaze from Keith’s body. He raised his arm shakily, a salute to an emperor that he couldn’t even see, blinded from the base of the stands.

“Roma, Victrix!” Lance felt his voice crack slightly, but Alfor didn’t seem to notice.

“And now, verso pollice! What of Keith? It seems that his time with us has come to a close. Will you grant him reprieve?” At that, the emperor raised his left thumb, before turning it sideways and closing it tightly in his fist. “Or…” He slid the thumb out slowly, flexing his fingers and lowering his right hand to his lap.

A rumbling, then, as the spectators chatted between themselves, some raising both hands in the air and waggling their fingers crudely as they considered a verdict. Lance closed his eyes. The ringing in his ears had started again, were their voices getting louder? The racket following a match had never bothered him much before, but now the people struck him as no better than a pack of dogs, sordid and persistent in their cravings.

All at once the clamor quietened down, an eerie hush settling as the arena grew still. The Emperor stood again, his voice reaching every seat, every gladiator that stood recovering in the lowest stands - even Hunk and the stablehands strained their ears to listen to the verdict from below.

“A decision has been reached.” Was Lance imagining it? Or was there slight disappointment clouding his words?

“The crowd of Rome have passed judgment on the fallen gladiator Keith, of Centumcellae. They feel that he should die a noble death, as noble as he fought in life, offering his throat to join his comrades. Orcus will welcome him with open arms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few of you noticed last chapter that I actually edit Klance AMVs on YouTube, you may recognise one or two of them as I've done quite a few now (like most people in this fandom I never, ever expected my interest to stick as firmly as it has. Let alone to be writing fanfiction, I have SO MANY other ideas floating around for one-shots etc. I've literally been leading a Klance-based lifestyle for the last 6 months heLP)
> 
> Anyway so here is a link to my Twitter: https://twitter.com/kaorusan241  
> My YouYube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCDHDBGC5WqaZom5N6n1coOw  
> And my Tumblr: http://kaorusan241.tumblr.com/
> 
> Hope to see you there! Shoot me a tweet, ask, whatever if you want to know anything or have any requests! ♡


	3. Chapter 3

> **Per Angusta ad Augusta.**
> 
> _Through trial to triumph._

 

* * *

 

_“The crowd of Rome have passed judgment on the fallen gladiator Keith, of Centumcellae. They feel that he should die a noble death, as noble as he fought in life, offering his throat to join his comrades. Orcus will welcome him with open arms.”_

Allura had always considered herself to be a reasonable woman. Yes, she might slip up sometimes, and no, she didn’t always agree with her father or his advisors, but she generally knew when to keep her mouth shut.

As she watched the imperial soldiers advancing on Keith, Allura wondered when she’d become so unsure of herself. She wanted to scream and shout, point out the achievements of this man and demand why his fate should be decided by portly merchants and their ghastly wives. The choice had been impossible, reflected in the relatively even spread of those voting for and against Keith’s death. How could anyone choose between two such great fighters?

It was this spark of uncertainty, the undercurrent of unease among the crowd as they raised their fists, that gave Allura hope. She wanted to believe that deep down, even in the minds of those that had written off Keith for dead, people knew this was wrong. Gladiators came from all different walks of life; Some were slaves taken from families in Thracia, Britannia, Galatia, others were generals who had fallen from favour. Just as the Empire’s marketplaces and harbors were filled to the brim with traders of no one culture or colour, so too was the arena. If Allura could only encourage the younger generation, _remind_ them that gladiators had their own traditions, hopes and dreams - perhaps they would speak out against the intolerance of their parents.

It pained her deeply to acknowledge that if she was ever to realize this vision for Rome, she would have to show restraint. As it was, none of the guards below expected to be stopped, despite the fact that technically the emperor still had the power to save Keith’s life. They surrounded him, one even going so far as to remove his sword from it’s holster, eying the curve of Keith’s neck to gauge which angle would yield the cleanest slice.

Allura’s heart ached for Keith, and for all those killed by her father’s pride. Yet here she stood, frozen where she had jumped to her feet so suddenly. All eyes in the imperial box lay on her, some shaking their heads in disappointment already, others seemingly bracing themselves for a brazen speech to leave her lips. Allura couldn’t bring herself to look at them. Instead, her attention was focused on Lance, one of her favourite gladiators for his fearless attitude and thinly-veiled contempt for the ‘sport’ he’d been forced into.

With the way he was hunched over on the ground, his body shaking, it was clear that he was crying. Lance had often let out angry shouts, or had screams of pain ripped out of him as swords and tridents plunged into his sides, but never tears. Those celebrating in the audience probably thought that Lance was simply happy, relieved even, to be even one step closer to freedom and financial security.

Allura knew better. She had seen all too often the signs of gladiators breaking, overwhelmed by the pressure of killing their friends and relatives for the sick amusement of the crowd. It had been clear in the waver of Lance’s voice, and it was clearer still now - those sobs wracking his body were the mark of a man who had lost hope, not regained it.

Keith’s reaction to the verdict could not have been more different - he’d seemingly accepted his death, hauling himself up into a kneeling position and lowering his head at the approach of the guards. Lance’s grief was private, Allura realized, and Keith was doing him the courtesy of averting his eyes, so as not to acknowledge Lance’s weakness. Allura did the same, looking instead to her father.

To her surprise, Alfor had been watching her, along with the medley of emotions that had doubtless crossed her face. She made no attempt to school her expression. Her father would surely kill Keith, but she would not let that stop her from making her opinions known. Coran may have warned her against speaking out for the meantime, but _by Jupiter_ was she going to make the Emperor and his arena masters pay once this mess was over.

The Emperor considered his daughter for a moment longer, before turning back to his subjects. Their unspoken conversation did not go unnoticed by the senators, who watched the exchange uncomfortably. The increasingly volatile relationship between the Emperor and his daughter was no secret, some speculating that Allura would have been renounced had she not agreed to marry a man of her father’s choice.

“Judgment has indeed been passed. The will of the people is clear, and it is true that for Keith to continue in his current state would be impossible. However...” The Emperor paused, raising his left fist once again and sliding a thumb inside. “in… _particular_ circumstances, exceptions can be made.”

Lance whipped his head upwards, eyes shooting between Keith and the Emperor’s stand. Allura could almost feel Lance’s agitation as the former remained staring at the ground, but could understand Keith’s apprehension at her father’s vague phrasing. She herself was shocked – the gladiator must truly have been a favourite of her father’s for him to reconsider the death sentence.

“Just as Hercules is said to have rescued Prometheus from his grisly fate, I have taken it upon myself to grant Keith mercy. Why, you ask? Because Rome, victorious in all fields, has the best physicians of any empire in history. Keith’s continued presence in the arena should provide incentive to those of you not yet in the military – those who fight well will not be abandoned.”

Ah, there it was. She should have known that her father would have an ulterior motive, he’d been edging towards longer terms for conscripted soldiers for a while now. Still, she couldn’t help the small smile creeping across her face as she watched Lance, who had risen to his feet with renewed vigor. A stretcher came to escort Keith from the arena and he collapsed onto it, visibly exhausted from the day’s events.

From the edge of the imperial box, a man sat watching Allura’s reaction, his own smirk widening. The crowd hadn’t been able to complain at the outcome, instead screaming tributes to their “merciful emperor”, with huge rounds of applause echoing across the ring. Clapping slowly in agreement, he continued to watch her carefully.

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂ 

 

 

For as long as Keith could remember, his memories had been scattered.

When he was 13, forced to sleep on a jagged stone floor amongst a group of other slaves destined for the ring, he’d listened to childhood stories. There’d been exciting tales of brotherly rivalry, mountain climbing, and detailed plans for stealing apples from the trees of village elders. A boy called Caius would often be on his feet after dark, waving his arms wildly and making Keith and the other boys laugh at his antics until the guards came to beat them into submission.

It was always worth it, because even the most mediocre story felt thrilling in the shadows of nightfall, a simple sort of companionship fostered among children who had lost everything. Keith remembered all of their names, every tale, because how could he not? They’d been his first taste of real, genuine friendship. In time the children had been picked off, sent to various schools never to be seen again, and this was to be expected given their situation. Still, Keith remembered them.

It was when he was alone, the runt of the crop and so last to be sent to the Ludus Magnus at the tender age of 15, that he lay in the dark and tried to remember. Maybe if he could piece together his past, a time before he’d been taken, he’d find similar stories of stolen apples and a mother’s chiding. Perhaps a gladiator school wouldn’t be so bad, if he could make the other boys laugh like Caius had.

Here’s the thing. When terrible events happen, there are blanks. It’s a coping mechanism, something the human brain has in place for when a memory is too awful to keep. Keith came to this realization in stages, like peeling off a scab too early and immediately regretting the pain that followed.

It took a long time, maybe two weeks, for the dreams to hit. At first they were flashes, the occasional scream and a feeling of red hot heat that would have Keith tumbling out of his bunk in a cold sweat. Later, it was fully formed images, images that left him sobbing into the darkness and wondering if there were any happy memories left to be found.

 _Groaning. Bleeding._ Fingers digging into his shoulder blades as he was dragged from a dark cupboard. Keith had thought nothing could be worse than the blood of his grandparents showering his small body as he was pulled from hiding. Every good memory he had, every taste of hot soup or cuddle he had received was wiped away with the force of that day.

It was little wonder, then, that Keith had looked further back, back to the cloudier memories of his life before 6 years old for comfort. The soft tones of his grandfather as he spoke warmly of his father, the comfort brought by whisperings of his mother’s beauty, all of it had led him to believe that his life had begun in a home just as lovely as any of his young friends.

The trouble with the human brain, it turns out, is that it’s power reigns only when you are awake.

 

♒

 

“Kei…. Keith…. Keith! Wake up, sweetie.”

Cool light filtered through the gauze covering his window, a gentle breeze brushing the tips of his hair against his nose until Keith was forced to ease the itch. Absently, he registered the feel of papery skin grasping his hands, the soft wrinkled feel of his grandmother, the sound of jingling golden bangles at her wrists.

She lifted him carefully and he clung to her, legs wrapping familiarly around her waist as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Fingers rubbed his arms soothingly as she spoke, already making her way from the room.

“Keith, sweetie, you’re going to come with me and Grandpa for a while.  Mummy and Daddy are going to stay behind, and we’re going to go to the farm and have lots of fun, okay? We’ll go fishing and stargazing and all the things you like to do. Won’t that be good?”

Keith’s voice sounded foreign to his ears, hoarse and many shades higher than he was used to. “Yeah Gramma, but what’s gon’ happen to my vines? Will Mummy water them?”

“Yes, yes, of course she will. Come now, we have to hurry, Grandpa is waiting.”

A loud bang, and Keith felt his grandmother tense in his hold.

“What’s that?”

“Shush, shush.” The tone of her words sent a chill curling down his spine, and he faintly registered that they were at the bottom of a stairwell. Above them, Keith could hear his parents, their voices urgent in the darkness. Stars were visible through the door ahead of them, and they crept closer.

Who were they talking to? What was going on? Why was his grandmother treading so carefully all of a sudden?

Another crash, and a gasp ripped through his mother from above. He could feel dampness on his cheeks, strange, he hadn’t thought he was crying.

They reached the door and stepped through, Keith felt himself being passed to his Grandfather as they broke into a harsh sprint. Keith spun in his his grasp, straining to see the house behind him, smoke filling his nostrils as flames licked at the place they’d stood only moments ago –

_Nothing._

Keith always woke then, the horror of knowing that no one else was out there to rescue him, that his grandparents had been _everything_ , it was too much.

Keith groaned, the pain he felt now was of the physical kind, but he could feel himself being tugged back into another dream before he could muster up the strength to stop it.

The feel of this dream was so foreign that Keith almost woke straight back up. Rather than angry reds and foreboding oranges, this was a turquoise green, waves instead of jagged lines.

Hands, again, but smooth ones, weathered with experience rather than age. _Whose hands are these…?_

Keith’s hair was being ruffled, it was painful, but before he could protest boisterous laughter filled his ears.

 _Ah,_ _this memory._

 

♒

 

“Well, time to towel off that mane of yours!” Keith could hear the strain in Lance’s voice, and recognized that the guy was trying to lighten the mood. Pretty difficult given that Keith had virtually just told him he was destined to die tomorrow, but he had to give him props.

Lance’s eyebrows drew together in irritation. “Though for some reason, despite that shaggy mess of hair you’ve got going on, all the babes at the gladiator dinners seem to dig you.”

…Or not. Keith didn’t get Lance’s obsession with their ‘rivalry’ but he played along, smirking cockily.

“Well, if the alternative is looking at you, I can’t say I blame them.”

Lance gasped, throwing a hand to his chest dramatically and making a show of splashing Keith in the process.

“Maybe if you just wore a basic tunic and cloak like the rest of us instead of parading around half-naked in your armor...”

“I am appalled. That a man with hair long enough to be _braided_ should presume to give me fashion advice?” He narrowed his eyes at Keith. “What _is_ the world coming to.”

Keith was about to ask why on earth Lance had considered braiding his hair, but the retort died in his throat as the man stood up. Lance was dripping wet, stretching out his sore muscles and groaning at the sensation. When had he gotten so _flexible?_ Keith felt his face heating up and looked away violently, trying not to let his gaze creep lower. Lance seemed not to have noticed Keith staring, offering him his hand. _Thank the gods._

Keith made no move to take it until Lance waggled his fingers, rolling his eyes. Rather than let himself be hoisted up, Keith pulled and watched with satisfaction as Lance plummeted elegantly into the water. Watching Lance splutter as he came back up to the surface was so, _so_ worth it, and Keith laughed deeply at the shock and anger in his expression.

The look didn’t last long and soon they were both laughing, semi-hysterical, with tears in their eyes as the strain of their responsibilities melted away.

 

♒♒♒

 

_Keith was falling, plummeting, edges of his vision rippling, laughter still pleasant in his ears_

_The baths melted away, Lance was still laughing but his mouth wasn’t moving, just staring blankly as Keith fell down through the water, into the next –_

♒♒♒

 

“—Okay, so maybe I should grow out my hair - Don’t laugh!”

Keith couldn’t help it, Lance with long hair must be a _sight._

“I really think that if the girls at this _Cena Libera_ knew they had a choice, between long-haired you and long-haired _me_ , they’d come to their senses.

“Sure, Lance. Face it, no amount of prize-money is going to make those girls want you.”

“Whatever _Keith,_ you’re just sick with envy because _I_ was making headway with that girl, while you’ve just been lingering on the sidelines this whole time.”

“I have not been ‘lingering on the sidelines’, and I’m pretty sure that girl is over you already.”

Lance opened his mouth to argue but closed it, groaning, when Keith gestured to his left.

“Fucking Felix. I swear, every time I so much as _talk_ to a girl he makes it his mission to kill our young love in its tracks.”

“Lance, he didn’t need to kill your ‘young love’. I’m pretty sure you did that yourself when you said, ‘just call me the goddess of hunting, because I’m Diana to take you home’”.

“That’s a trademark line, Keith!”

Everyone dealt with the looming threat of death in different ways, and Lance’s method was to flirt with anything that moved. The skinny blonde he’d been obsessing over was attractive in a predictable sort of way, but she was clearly too fickle to put up with Lance’s quips for long.

Honestly, what would it take for this guy to just _give it a rest?_

Keith’s answer came a few moments later when Lance invaded his space, more indignant than usual after his recent rejection. “Obviously you wouldn’t get it, being unable to flirt, but I personally find that cheesy pick-up lines are a surefire way to win someone over.”

Keith wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it, maybe it was Lance’s infuriatingly smug grin or the way he’d mussed up his hair to replicate ‘Keith’s shaggy mop’. Regardless, he felt the urge to test the theory. He leaned a little closer, laughing internally as Lance’s eyes widened, his gaze flickering to the other man’s throat as he gulped subtly.

"Are you a priest? Because I'll erect a temple for you to worship..."

Keith had expected Lance to shove him away, laugh or make some comment about how that ‘temple’ wasn’t worth any kind of devotion. What he was _not_ prepared for was the pink now dusting Lance’s cheeks prettily, complimenting his olive skin. Avoiding Keith’s eyes, he looked away, rubbing his mouth. Could Lance’s vague phrasing have been deliberate…? He’d said win ‘someone’ over rather than ‘girls’ after all…

He’d never seen Lance with any men, not in _that_ way, at least. It wasn’t impossible, although usually couplings arose between slave boys and their masters, rather than those of similar social standing. He’d heard of such things in Greece, but here companionship on equal grounds was virtually unheard of outside of entertainers and prostitutes.

Was… was Lance an _irrumator_ _?_ It was seen as a shameful epithet - for a man to perform oral sex was the greatest mark of subordination. The hierarchy was complex, but there was a clear distinction between men who dominated and those that submitted to a partner. For a gladiator, though? It was possible, they had no social standing to protect, after all. An image of Lance at the baths earlier rose abruptly and - _fuck, this was a mistake._

“Huh.” Keith grinned as naturally as he could, taking a wide step back. “Guess that proves your theory.”

Lance coughed, seemingly collecting himself. “…Guess so.”

 

♒

 

Keith opened his eyes sharply, rolling onto his side and wincing at the pain, his wounds still raw and stinging.

He wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight, not with the painful memories of his childhood, or worse still, _Lance,_ blinking behind his eyelids.

_Lance._

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith, you're in trouble now..  
> I spent 6/22 hours flying home working out a concrete plan for this fic, and planning another that had been on my mind, so now that's sorted it's flowing nicely :)  
> Thanks for the support! ♡


	4. Chapter 4

> **Karissima, noli tardare  
>  studeamus nos nunc amare.**
> 
> _My dearest, do not hesitate!  
>  Let us now study the art of love._

 

* * *

 

 

Two days had passed since the games, but Allura was still in no mood to socialise. Pausing in the corridor outside what was to be the most important banquet of her life, she breathed in, trying to calm herself.

Allura didn’t much care for the elaborate cosmetics required of wealthy ladies at society events, flat-out refusing to bleach her face with lead. How women could voluntarily risk skin disease and corrosion for the sake of appearances was beyond her.

Even without the whitening Allura still felt like a rather sad imitation of Plautine theatre. Bright malachite powder accentuated her eyelids, kohl liner flicking up into exaggerated points on either side. Alkanet had left her cheeks rosy as befitting a virgin, but she was sure that her face would soon be flushed with suppressed irritation regardless.

The last half hour or so spent stalling in front of a mercury hand-mirror had left her nervous and jittery. She’d inspected the vague image thoroughly for any makeup needing reapplication from her _cosmetae_ , but eventually had to concede that no corrections were left to be made. 

She’d left it long enough that the first or second amphorae of wine should have been drunk, but not so late that she might offend her ‘honoured guest’. Finally stepping through into the banquet hall, Allura was proved correct, forcing a smile onto her face as raucous conversation between noblemen flooded her ears.

Taking a seat a few chairs down from her father, she scanned the stuffed dormice entrees and other assorted dishes. Roasted pork, figs, hazelnuts, pomegranates… and was that fermented liquamen for flavoring instead of fresh fish? It made for an interesting selection to say the least.

The mark of a guest’s status could usually be gauged by the food offered to them, but Allura could ascertain little from this spread. Her best guess right now was that he was a military man, and her heart sunk.

Allura knew that judging a man’s character by their profession was a terrible habit, but the generals she had met in the past were gruff and rude, the noblemen flighty and promiscuous. It seemed that unless her future husband was a new arrival to her father’s social circle, she was in for a difficult marriage. 

Straining her head for a better view of those at the far end table, Allura remained completely oblivious to the man who had been failing to hide his amusement at the scheming clear on her face.

_I could make a run for it? The peristylium is just next-door, if I could only break away for a moment or two –_

Allura felt eyes on her, then. She looked to the man sitting opposite her, to find him chuckling lowly at her discomfort. In any other situation she might be irritated, it didn’t seem to be anyone she’d met before and he was making no effort to mask his ridicule. However, on closer inspection…

Was this really a friend of her father’s?

He was surely the most handsome company the emperor had ever kept. He couldn’t have been much older than herself, maybe 25 or 30, and yet he bore the marks of military service plainly in the scar across his face. His skin was a few shades lighter than her own, an olive sort of colour, and it complimented the deep brown of his eyes and hair beautifully.

The serious set of his brows indicated that he’d seen a lot, but the curve of his smile and crease lines hinting at their edges suggested a stable warmth beneath all that.

In short, Allura was awestruck, which was a new experience for her. Tearing her eyes away, she chastised herself. She was engaged to be _married,_ and yet here she was ogling some general like one of her handmaidens.

Though if she was subtle enough… perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to take another peek?

Raising her eyes slowly she found the man still looking at her, tone perfectly political as he finally addressed her. And _by_ _Jupiter_ that voice. Allura may have been destined for the imperial throne, but she was only human.

“Allura, I apologise for not introducing myself sooner. My name is – “

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet, my daughter!” Allura had never been so close to killing her father. Just when she’d thought this banquet would be somewhat bearable… 

“Ah, but it seems that you’ve met him already?” She turned to him curiously at that, following his line of sight until – ah. _Ah._

“General Takalius. The best strategist I have, and a man of suitably high calibre.” _Your future husband_ remained a detail unspoken, but everyone in the room knew it to be true.

“You may call me Shiro, Allura.”

Allura smiled shyly, glancing again towards the garden. “Shiro, then. I hope that we can get to know each other a little better tonight.”

Chances to get away from dinner were sparse for the next few hours, Shiro having been forced to chatter idly with military leaders of Alfor’s choice. Allura, on the other hand, was struggling with a hoard of ladies asking question after question about whether _General Takalius would be a caring husband, do you think? Or a brusque alpha male?_

Eventually she found herself by a fountain, the peristyle garden surrounding it mercifully empty. Allura thanked her lucky stars that her father had invested in many such areas around the banquet hall, the dinner being a smaller affair meant that she was unlikely to be bothered here.

Rounding the fountain slowly she almost jumped out of her skin at the sight of Shiro already seated, admiring its elaborate stonework.

Smiling gently, Shiro greeted her again. “Allura, good to see that you’ve also escaped unscathed.”

“Physically, at least.” She took a seat next to him, admiring the moonlight speckling the water and the shimmery glow it cast on his cheekbones. It was a beautiful evening, warm but not muggy, although she was grateful to be wearing a relatively thin stola.

“I know that this isn’t an ideal situation for either of us.” Shiro was the first to break the silence, turning to face her. His expression was apologetic but not remorseful, which eased some of Allura’s nerves.

“The agreement I made with your father was a gamble and to be quite honest with you, some of the ladies I’ve met since arriving here have been… intimidating.”

“Vile, I think you mean.” Allura grinned, and Shiro relaxed. There was a pleasant pause before he spoke again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I just want you to know that you can talk to me, if there’s anything bothering you.”

The edge of Allura’s finger tingled where it brushed his, their hands skirting nervously next to each other on the stone bench. She didn’t say anything in response, but nodded simply to let Shiro know that she’d heard him. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

“You’re nothing like I expected.”

“I should be saying the same. I was sure my father would have paired me with some angry old man wanting to put me in my place. Can I expect the same of you?”

“Of course not, princess.”

Allura blushed vividly, breaking eye-contact.

_A little early for pet-names, and yet it doesn’t sound awful leaving his mouth…_

_Perhaps this won’t be so bad._

 

 

❂  ❂  ❂ 

 

 

Lance hadn’t slept in days. Two, to be exact, but who was counting? Not him. Keith was just his rival, right? He’d be fine, Lance had seen him get into worse scrapes before.

And yet… a creeping feeling in his chest.

What if Keith didn’t wake up? Would that mean that Lance had killed him? Assisted suicide? Both options sent cold fear to the pit of his stomach.

Fellow gladiators weren’t often told of others’ passing until three or four days after the event, but Lance couldn’t wait that long. He had to know. 

Tugging his hood up hastily, Lance weaved his way through the labyrinthine passages that he’d come to know so well. It’s true that his victories had given him some measure of freedom, but an unauthorised exit such as this would not go unpunished if he was caught.

In the streaky light of dawn, it was difficult for even Lance to navigate the underground alleys connecting his chambers with the medical bay, and he swallowed nervously as his position became clearer.

He was very conscious that being met by guards in this area of the complex would mean certain flogging – if not now then later, when they awoke from being knocked unconscious.

Should Lance need to escape quickly to avoid being seen, he’d have to sprint back down the hall and vault up two flights of stairs. Gladiators often had to go for slim windows, counting the seconds carefully wasn’t an option when an opportunity to kill arose. Even so, Lance knew that he was unlikely to succeed with these odds.

As the corridor opened into a slightly wider cavern, Lance let out a shaky breath. Familiar side routes were now coming into view on either side, allowing easy-access for escape should the need arise.

The medical quarters underneath the Flavian Amphitheatre were nondescript, tucked away and from the outside no different to storage rooms for beasts. Only a small handful of fighters who had evaded death, as well as those who worked there, recognised their pungent aroma as an assortment of medicines rather than a ploy to mask decaying cattle-meat.

Slipping into an alcove, Lance edged closer to the wall. It was enough that he could peek through gaps in the wooden door, but not so obvious that he’d be sent straight back to the barracks.

The spices and dried herbs he could see lining the shelves were used to cure all manner of ailments for the body, thin strips of gauze tinted orange with use left hanging from the low ceilings to dry. Lance had only been a victim to this place once, the memory of forceps and catheters bringing on a shudder even now. 

If you asked him, all that jargon about restoring someone’s ‘natural heat’ and rebalancing the ‘four inner humors’ were just an excuse for those crusty Greek physicians to torture more attractive Roman fighters.

The old men muttering discreetly in this room weren’t the same from yesterday, so Lance continued on. Dashing quickly to the recess opposite, he angled closer to the only other chamber that appeared occupied.

To his relief, the physicians he recognised as tending to Keith in the arena were inside, so there was a good chance that Keith’s bunk was there too. He didn’t like to consider the alternative – that Keith was already dead and another patient lay in his place. 

Lance could hear bits and pieces, eventually determining that the physicians were indeed talking to Keith. Any lingering happiness he felt turned to horror, however, as he listened more intently. One ear pushed up against the wooden door, panic filled his veins at the tone of their voices.

“…lost a lot of blood, blunt hooks.”

“almost needed to amputate…. weapon fragments…. drilling…”

“…Never fight to your full potential again.”

Lance steadied himself against the wall, shifting so that he didn’t have to hear anymore.

_I did this. This is my fault._

Lance couldn’t deny responsibility for Keith’s condition, and yet something else intermingled with the guilt that had shadowed him since the arena.

He couldn’t understand _why_ Keith had done it. They’d been acquaintances, yes, tentative friends at a push, but was that really a cause to drive Lance’s sword into his stomach? Would Lance have risked it all, if he’d been in Keith’s shoes?

Yes, he would have done. If someone had asked him that same question in their first fighting week, the answer would have been a resounding ‘no’, but something had shifted.

They’d become _something_ during their occasional meetings at the baths, stilted conversations at dinners; even if it differed from the firm bond between brothers. 

Not that it mattered. Maybe Keith had never assumed to live past yesterday, and putting his life on the line was merely some fragment of a wider plan. Lance wasn’t sure why that brought a sour feeling to his gut – they drove each other to extremes but even a bitter rival didn’t deserve to be mangled in Lance’s honour.

Still… had all of their conversations before been tinged with the looming threat of fighting to the death? Why did he even care?

Lance was broken from his thoughts by the echo of Keith’s door creaking open, and had to quickly shove himself back to avoid being seen. Once he was certain the coast was clear, he slipped through the gap they’d blithely left, locking it behind him and swinging towards the bed.

To put it bluntly, Keith looked like death.

The blood caking his wounds had been cleaned thoroughly but harsh lines remained, the scratches and jagged pink ridges a reminder that _Lance had done this._ Moving closer for a better look, he winced. Keith’s bare chest looked like a constellation even beneath the bandages, it was no wonder that he’d struggle to fight again – if at all.

Lance knew that the beast fight before him had done the majority of this, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible for every additional bit of pain he’d inflicted.

As if sensing Lance’s self-deprecating thoughts, Keith coughed lightly. 

“It’s always boiling in here, sorry.” He muttered, by way of greeting. Typical Keith, to be more concerned about his state of undress than the deep bags under his eyes and the sallow pallor of his skin. _Has he even been sleeping?_

Before Lance could find any words, Keith coughed again violently, eventually calming down enough to quirk an eyebrow at Lance and tease him quietly.

“Took you long enough to come and visit me.”

“I… had things to do, always more swords to sharpen.” Lance tried for humour, but his smile felt strained. Keith’s own fell at the sight and Lance surged forward, taking a seat beside the cot.

Now that he’d seen him in this state, so close to death, Lance was afraid to leave. It felt as if by turning his back, he would be resigning Keith to this wretched fate. It was vital that he stayed optimistic, because if a gladiator’s demeanor fell their health would quickly follow.

Lance knew the signs all too well.

Keith seemed to recognize Lance’s distress because he reached forward quietly, clasping their hands together. Lance jolted slightly at the contact, shock written clear on his face.

“Stay alive, and I will too.”

Lance’s palms felt clammy, he wasn’t ready, Keith’s grip was firm and his eyes were boring into his own. How had he never noticed those curious splashes of purple before?

At that moment, Lance knew that Keith would be fine. He had enough determination for the both of them, it seemed, and now it was time to go. If he stayed any longer, this feeling would get worse.

Saying nothing, Lance squeezed once, before turning back to his quarters.

He shouldn’t have come here, and the promise he had made to himself so long ago still rang true in his head.

_The only thing more terrible than dying alone in this worthless place, would be to care for another gladiator._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this time I won't keep noticing mistakes and have to edit it 1000 times fml  
> I hope it doesn't notify you guys every time I'm so sorry otherwise hahaa  
> Anyway so the plot has yet to thicken but that will come soon.. I wouldn't have wanted to live in Ancient Rome personally, a lot of shit went down TBQH
> 
> How are you guys holding up with the countdown?? I'm going insane, I'm already halfway through the next chapter and a chunk into a completely different Klance AU. I guess that's my way of making the most of the glory days in case something terrible happens with them on Friday :')


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